


Fic: Letting Go

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot doesn't want them to see the price he pays for keeping them safe. They're not concerned about what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Все дело в доверии](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3093812) by [patska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patska/pseuds/patska)



He knew he had to move.

Everything he needed was inside the room – and wasn’t that always the case? – and standing here all night wasn’t going to accomplish a fucking thing. He _knew_ he had to move.

The problem was convincing his hand to loosen its death-grip on the edge of the dresser and his legs to take that first step.

He had to move. And it was going to fucking _hurt_.

Of course, it wasn’t going to feel a whole helluva lot better when he simply toppled over where he was. And he didn’t think that time would be long in coming. He could feel the sweat beading at his hairline and across his upper lip, could feel the strange too-hot/too-cold clamminess seeping into his skin, tried to swallow down, without any success, that odd but way too familiar metallic tang at the back of his tongue and blink through, again with no success, the telltale graying of his vision at the edges. His body was beginning to shake now, abused muscles too tight and nearing the end of their endurance, and he knew he was running out of time.

Just. fucking. _move_. Because the landing was gonna be a bitch when it came, and he would _much_ rather it be against the bed than the floor.

Of course, the problem with _that_ was that the bed was _over fucking there_ , in the middle of a room that, just now, seemed roughly the size of a football field. And why the _hell_ had Hardison picked this place? Yeah, suites sounded real good at first, until it came time to _fucking walk across the room_ just to reach the goddamn bed.

Shit, this was gonna hurt.

Not that it didn’t already. His head throbbed in that unique and delightful way that signaled a concussion – pain stabbing like fireplace pokers through his skull and into his eyes – and the only thing keeping him from screaming for it to stop was the fact that he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to do it, courtesy of ribs that felt not just broken, but pulverized. His left arm was all but useless – and, yeah, yanking his _own_ dislocated shoulder back into place? just _so. not. fun._ – and while he couldn’t see the bruises he knew had to cover his lower back, he had no doubt he’d be pissing blood for a while.

Jesus, he almost _wanted_ a hospital now. A hospital with small rooms and a bed _right there_. And really good drugs.

Like the drugs he knew were in one of his bags, because he _always_ packed the good shit. Might forget clean socks, but industrial-strength pain meds? Yeah, _no_.

And they were in that bag now, just waiting for him. _On the other fucking side of the bed._ And, oh yeah, with _fucking childproof caps_ , because BigPharma thought fucking with people in serious pain was a good idea. Should be a whole new level of fun trying to get one of those caps off one-handed.

Maybe he should–

_No._ He could do this. He’d done it for years before he ever met them. Hell, there’d been more than a few times he’d sewn himself up! Yeah, it was because there just hadn’t been anyone else to do it, and, yeah, maybe that wasn’t the case any more, but–

He could do this.

Maybe.

He was sweating and shaking now, his mouth dry and tinny, his head tight – and, fuck, didn’t that just help the gleeful stabbing there? – and his vision starting to swim. God, he hurt _so_ much! It had been a while since he’d come so close to losing a fight, had known going in it wouldn’t be pretty, but the bastards had been trying to keep him from getting the team out, and that had sort of settled the matter. His only consolation – well, aside from his people actually being _safe_ now – was that the other sons of bitches were most likely every bit as miserable as he right now.

Especially that big motherfucker he’d sent tumbling over the stairway railing to the concrete below. Asshole had pulled a _gun_ on him, had shoved it to his _chest_ and curled a finger around the trigger, grinning all the while. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so enjoyed snapping somebody’s bones–

Oh, Jesus, he needed to sit down. His head was swimming and his stomach starting a slow, queasy turn, and he could feel the sweat pouring from him. He _had_ to get to the bed. But the minute his fingers relaxed their grip on the dresser, he was going down. And it was going. to fucking. **_hurt_** _._

“Eliot?”

He only vaguely heard the distant voice, couldn’t make out what it was saying or even whose it was. Much more distinct, however – sort of like a jackhammer revving up inside his skull – was the elephantine _pounding_ on door just behind him … and, okay, maybe it was just some anxious knocking, but, Jesus, his _head_ –

“Eliot, we’re coming in.”

“No,” he protested. Or, okay, _moaned_ , and, fuck, how could a sound that small and pathetic hurt so goddamn much? “I’m okay.”

Oh, yeah, that slurred croak sounded _totally_ convincing. As much as Sophie in one of her plays–

Even so, he uttered a small growl – whine? – of annoyance when the door opened behind him. That was a _clear_ violation of the rules. So long as he wasn’t actually bleeding out before them, and there were no bones sticking out through his skin, they were supposed to _leave him the fuck alone_. He knew how to take care of himself far better than they did, thank you very much, had been doing it for years and was the one with, you know, actual _field medic training_. And they knew to give him time, to let him sort through his various injuries and figure out just how much to let them see–

“It’s all right, Eliot,” Nate’s voice said, much too close to his ear. Jesus, how had the man gotten that close?

Oh, yeah, because in the ten minutes or two hours or fuckin’ eternity since he’d come in here, he hadn’t gone any further than _this_. Right. _My bad._

“All right, we’re gonna help you,” Nate said. “Just tell us how.”

He stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath – _and don’t ever fucking do that **again**!_ his mind and body screamed in agonized unison as his whole world went white. The rules. Jesus, didn’t rules mean _anything_ to these people?

“Sophie, go turn down his bed. Parker, find his medical bag–”

“No!” He managed somehow to lift his head and force open his eyes – well, _eye_ ; the one that wasn’t already too swollen to do anything but throb – and tried to glare over his shoulder at … Nate? He’d just assume for the sake of argument that the blurry guy swimming in and out of his very narrow field of vision was Nate. “I d– I don’t need … help. I’m–”

“Don’t _even_ ,” warned another voice … behind him? “Seriously, man, I know you do _not_ think we’re that stupid.”

Hardison. Great. Now they could all watch him fall on his ass. Or his face. Either way, it was gonna be a bitch.

“Eliot,” Nate’s voice was closer, and oddly gentle, “you’re not gonna last much longer, you know that. Hell, it’s a wonder you’ve lasted this long. So just tell us what you need us to do, okay?”

“Need you … to leave me … alone,” he gasped through clenched teeth. “I c– I can … do this.”

“Really?” Hardison scoffed, sounding closer than ever. “Seriously, man? Because even for a white dude, you are _pale_. I figure you’re about thirty seconds from eatin’ carpet.”

He licked his dry lips, doubting he had even that long. “Then get out.” Because he _really_ didn’t want them in here when he fell.

And he didn’t want them seeing the damage he’d taken for them–

“Eliot.”

He groaned inwardly. Or, hell, maybe aloud. _Probably_ aloud. Sophie’s voice, soft and warm and low, and so gentle he couldn’t help _but_ moan. Jesus, what were these people doing to him?

“You’re hurt,” she said with a remarkable grasp of the obvious. “We know that. And if you think trying to hide it from us will lessen our worry for you, you’re wrong.” Gentle fingers found their way into his hair, pushing it back from his face and tucking it behind his ear, then trailed lightly over his sore, and probably bruised, cheek. “You’re in pain, Eliot, and we need to take care of you. Will you let us help you?”

He wanted to say no, was fairly certain he _should_ say no, couldn’t imagine what they could possibly do for him that he couldn’t do for himself. Except, maybe, open a bottle of pills. Beyond that, he didn’t need them, didn’t need _anyone_ , hadn’t needed anyone since–

“Okay.”

Wait. _What?_ No, that wasn’t–

“All right.” Nate’s voice again, husky with relief. “You need to be in bed. Tell us how we can do that. Where can we touch you without hurting you worse?”

A laugh escaped him at that, but turned immediately into a thick, choked groan as his ribs and head, hell, his _everything_ , punished him for it. Fuck, where _didn’t_ he hurt?

And, oh God, he was falling–

“We gotcha, man,” Hardison said quickly as hands grabbed his right arm and a shoulder slid beneath it, bracing him, holding him up.

He rolled his head to his right and peeled open his one functioning eye, vaguely picking out faces through the haze of pain and exhaustion engulfing him. Nate’s shoulder under his, Hardison holding his arm and standing just behind him, supporting him from there.

And he _wasn’t_ falling.

“Slow and easy,” Nate directed, controlling everything as always. _Bastard._

“I hate you,” he muttered, and, _damn_ , was that his voice?

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re tough. We’re impressed. Aren’t we impressed, guys?”

“Shakin’ in my boots, man,” Hardison agreed, still holding his arm in one big but oddly gentle hand and curving the other about a hip to guide him. “Well, you know, if I _wore_ boots. But that shit-kicker look just ain’t me.”

_Asshole_ was what he meant to say, really. But then, somehow, he was sinking – no, being eased – slowly down onto the edge of the bed, a warm, firm body was pressing into his back and a light, sweet perfume washed over him, and he was fairly certain he moaned instead.

“Let us take care of you, Eliot,” Sophie urged as his tired and hurting body sagged against hers, his aching head finding a place of rest on her shoulder. “You were hurt helping us. Now it’s our turn to help you.”

Someone removed his boots and socks – Parker, by the light touch – and Sophie’s arms circled around him, her nimble fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly, slowly he was undressed, though not even the most careful movements of deft hands used to lifting wallets and cracking safes could avoid causing him pain. Still, it was far better than he could have done–

And, no, he was _never_ admitting that out loud. And when all this was done, and he could speak without moaning, he was going to remind them _yet again_ of the rules–

“Shit, man!”

And that right there, the shock and horror in Hardison’s strangled gasp and in Nate’s muffled curse? Yeah, _that_ was the very reason for the rules. They didn’t need to see this, didn’t need to know exactly what price he paid to keep them safe, didn’t need to read the uglier details of his job on his body. He was supposed to protect them, and keeping this from them was part of that.

“I can get it from here,” he breathed. “Y’all don’t need–”

“Right,” Nate scoffed. “Because you were doing so well on your own when we came in. You were gonna tend all these injuries with only one good arm and one good eye. Well, right after you picked yourself up off the floor, I mean.”

He tried to lift his head from Sophie’s shoulder, but couldn’t summon either the strength or the will to endure the pain it would cause. And it was damn hard to manage a glare with only one eye.

_Fuck._

“Hardison, get some ice. Parker, get his belt, leave his wallet alone, then you and Sophie get him out of his jeans–”

“What? _No!_ ” He did lift his head then, and very nearly pitched forward into the floor, or Parker, as a sickening rush of pain swept through him. But several quick and strong but careful hands grabbed him, kept him from falling, and slowly guided him back against the bed until he was lying down. Pain throbbed hard and heavy through every part of him and nausea churned thickly in his gut. He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaws, knotting the fingers of his good hand into the bedding and breathing in short, shallow bursts through his nose, just trying desperately not to throw up or scream.

And there went his jeans anyway. Fucking thieves.

Someone pulled the sheet and comforter up over him to his waist, and an ice pack was pressed to his injured shoulder. Gradually the pain lessened, grew bearable, and he shuddered and relaxed with a breathless moan.

And, shit, he _really_ needed to stop doing that.

Then the bed dipped down at his side, and a warm, strong hand curved about his good shoulder. _Nate._ “Are you okay to take painkillers?” he asked quietly. “With your head, I mean.”

He wanted to open his eyes … eye … wanted to do a lot of things. His body wasn’t allowing any of them. _Fuckin’ traitor._ “Yeah,” he whispered. “Just … y’ know … wake me every now and then.”

“Parker, see what he’s got.”

“Should be some Percocet,” he sighed. “Blue pills. Gimme one.”

Moments later, Sophie was lifting his head while Parker popped a pill into his mouth and offered him a sip of water to wash it down. He could have done this, really, _had_ done it so many times before–

Right. Because that would have been _so_ much better than this.

Sophie lowered his head back to the pillow and gently stroked his hair, murmuring softly to him, and Nate’s hand was kneading the kinks from his good shoulder. Parker settled herself somewhere down near his feet and began patting his leg.

Patting, not poking. Thank fucking God.

The lights in the room dimmed – Hardison’s doing, no doubt, the geek needing buttons to push – and the darkness was a mercy in itself, dulling the pain stabbing through his eyes and skull. He moaned again – fuck it, why not? – and let himself go.

Maybe it wasn’t smart. It certainly went against every instinct he’d honed over too many hard and hurtful years. And, yeah, he could have done _all_ of this himself.

Just now, though, just this once, it was okay. For a little while, anyway, he could forget the fuckin’ rules.

Because, really? There had to be worse things in this life than letting these people help him.

_End_   


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beige feather](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653279) by [patska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patska/pseuds/patska)




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